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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22940734">Sign Language Lessons</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadesfanfic/pseuds/fadesfanfic'>fadesfanfic</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batgirl (Comics), Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff, batfam</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 09:15:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,818</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22940734</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadesfanfic/pseuds/fadesfanfic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Raised as an assassin in near-complete isolation, Cassandra's never had anyone who bothered to communicate with her. But it seems like her new friends are willing to try.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Barbara Gordon &amp; Cassandra Cain</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Sign Language Lessons</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I’m following my friend in the city.</span>
  
</p><p>
  
  <span>At least, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>think</span>
  </em>
  <span> that we’re friends. The woman in the wheelchair has been around longer than most others have, has talked to me, even when it was clear that I didn't understand. She showed me images, kept looking back at my  face to see if I could understand, and even though I </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn't </span>
  </em>
  <span>understand, she tried as hard as she could. Not many people did that. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I know how to pantomime understanding, of course. Nod slightly, eyebrows knitted together in concentration, lips pressed together. Serious face. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hmmm. Mmmhmmm. Yeah.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
  <span>But I don’t bother pretending here. There’s no point to it. The only point to pretending to understand is to leave quicker, and I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to leave. I want to stay.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I think my friend's name is Barbara. That's what the others call her. Other people like me. Well, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly </span>
  </em>
  <span>like me. They didn't speak my language, not fluently. But they tried. Some of them are even pretty good at it.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>A cynic might say that my language is</span>
  <em>
    <span> violence</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and maybe they’re right, but I don’t want it to be. I’d rather say that my language is </span>
  <em>
    <span>body</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I was taught, trained, instructed, only in matters of violence for the first portion of my life. But I watched whatever else I could. I saw</span>
  <em>
    <span> his </span>
  </em>
  <span>expressions, his movement, during the instances he wasn't being violent. I wanted -- I wanted that. I wanted more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I fought much less the next portion of my life. I witnessed things. I witnessed everyone living in a world I could never be part of. At least, not until now.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Barbara is talking. She is very noisy. She never stops talking. And she's doing it </span>
  <em>
    <span>to me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
  <span>It's simultaneously exhausting and welcoming. Because Barbara is one of the few people who talk to me, and I don't want to throw that away. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Outside of a brick building downtown, a man is waiting for us. About six feet tall, shoulder length blond hair.  Azrael. I’ve seen him without his mask. It's almost hard to tell that he's the same person. Without his mask, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>moves </span>
  </em>
  <span>differently. As if something were animating him when he has it on, and now it's not.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Still, I can't help but smile when I see him.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Azrael holds out a fist when I  arrive, as he's done before. The same greeting I gave him. And it's welcoming to see someone making it back at me, rather than making incomprehensible noise at me. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Barbara now turns her conversation towards Azrael. I resist the temptation to tune her out. I know I should be trying to understand. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Jean-Paul!” an exclamation. Short. Easy to understand. “ʌɪm səʊ glad tʊ si: ju:  – ”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>and the rest was nowhere near that easy. I sigh. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Azrael says something to Barbara, then turns back and faces me again. I smile and perk up. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I'm listening</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I’d communicate to them if I could. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I can tell when you're talking about me. I just can't tell you that yet.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Barbara opens up a glass door to the building. Azrael heads on in, and I head in right after him, while Barbara is still holding the door.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Inside, I can't help but scan the scene for threats. It's my training. But everyone here is –</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Woman, at a desk, in front of a computer. Chin resting on one hand, tired position. She looks up when we come in, though. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Three senior citizens, sitting in chairs in a waiting area of the room. Two reading magazines, not attentive to their surroundings. One on a phone. Same.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>One middle aged man with black hair and light brown skin. Polo shirt. Posture taking the weight off his left knee. Smiling.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>One woman with a child. The child is at the woman's feet, tugging on her jeans. The woman is reaching into a purse but she doesn't withdraw a weapon, she withdraws a pacifier.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Two people about my age. They are passing a stuffed animal back and forth with their feet, like they're playing a game. Still standing near the waiting area.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Threats minimal.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Everyone here is probably a civilian.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The woman at the desk motions them over, and the three of them go to meet her. Barbara starts explaining something to the front desk woman, and I try to listen, try to piece together their conversation.</span>
</p><p><span>Barbara, leaning in slightly, glance at</span> <span>me. “aɪm hir wɪð ə frɛnd. ʃiz nɑn ˈvɜrbəl. wi nid ə weɪ tə kəmˈjunəˌkeɪt.”</span></p><p>
  
  <span>The word I get from that. Friend. I think. Friend. We are friends. It counts.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I sigh again. Picking out the packages of language I do understand, the bits and pieces I can put a meaning to, takes a lot of brainpower. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stop</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I know. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes. No. understandme, canyou</span>
  </em>
  <span>. People say that last one a lot. Enough for me to know the meaning. Those syllables, in that order, is someone finally getting that I don't know what they're saying.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The woman at the front desk moves her hands at me. Curious. I watch. Left hand open, palm up, chest height. Right hand also open, palm down. Starts near the heel side of her left hand and moves towards the tips of her fingers. Then both hands pointing their index fingers up at the sky. Left hand further away, right hand near her body. The hands come together.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I smile.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I don't know exactly what it meant, but it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>way </span>
  </em>
  <span>easier to see than everything that everyone else was doing. I immediately repeat the gesture back.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The woman smiles back at me. She points at me, then at her own head, then at her own chest.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I furrow my brow. The woman's obviously trying to communicate with me, but I don't understand the exact meaning. Maybe repeating the same gesture again will work?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I try doing that, making the gesture back, but the woman just shakes her head.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Oh.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I thought I was getting it.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The woman smiles again. She says something to me. “Canyou understandme.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Not again. People getting that I don't know what they're saying. The woman's face doesn't look exactly like everyone else's when they say it, though. Her eyebrows are furrowed slightly. Inquisitive. Not resigned. Does she </span>
  <em>
    <span>genuinely </span>
  </em>
  <span>not get that I don't understand?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“No,” I say. I know that word. I use it </span>
  <em>
    <span>a lot</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Barbara says something out loud to the woman again. “ʃi ˈdʌzənt spik ˈɛni ˈlæŋgwəʤ. ðæts waɪ wir hir.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The woman looks between Barbara and me rapidly. Clear confusion evident on her face. Eyebrows slightly pitched up. Worried? </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I hold my hands out, palms out, so that the woman knows I don't mean her any harm. To alleviate her worry. There's no weapons I'm hiding. I'm not in a fighting stance. The woman only looks more confused and raises one eyebrow.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I frown. I thought my actions were fairly obvious.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The woman gestures with an open palm to the waiting area, with the people my age, the three old people, the woman with the child, and the middle aged man. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Azrael pulls up one of the chairs in the area and sits down. I mimic him, and Barbara positions her mobile chair on the other side of me, so I’m sandwiched between the two. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The middle aged man begins to speak, and the elderly people up away their magazines and phones. The people my age stop playing with the toy. Everyone listens.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>So I try to listen too. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The man starts speaking. As he's speaking, he's moving his hands. He starts looking around the room, gestures at himself, then taps the first two fingers of both hands together in front of his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Barbara and Azrael seem to be listening intently. They seem to know what he's saying. After a moment, everyone in the room starts turning to each other and talking. Barbara faces me. “maɪ neɪm ɪz Barbara,” she says. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I smile at Barbara. I can tell she's talking to me, but not exactly what she's saying. As I glance around the room, everyone is saying that same thing...</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Some of them shake hands. Same thing some people do when they just meet me. Introducing each other. I wave at Barbara. Then at Azrael. At everyone in the room. See. I’m not stupid. Just because I can’t understand you doesn’t mean I’m stupid. I know what you’re doing.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“hɜr neɪm ɪz kəˈsændrə,” Barbara says to someone next to her. She points back at me. So I know Barbara is talking about me. But I don't know what she's </span>
  <em>
    <span>telling </span>
  </em>
  <span>this stranger.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The stranger, one of the elderly people, holds a hand out to me and says, “haɪ! ɪts naɪs tu mit ju!”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I grab the stranger's hand and shake it gingerly. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>This is... nice.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I don't understand exactly what is happening, but it's nice. Being around normal people. They aren't even treating me like I don't understand, even though I don’t. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The middle aged man in the suit starts talking again and everyone sitting down stops and listens. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>He pulls a screen down behind him. When he projects it, there are drawings on it. Some of them look like disembodied hands, and some look like abstract symbols. I  don't know what the symbols mean.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>And the lesson starts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>* * *</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is what I absorbed from the lesson:</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>It's not talking. People don't have to move their mouths. They don't have to make noise come out.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>But it is some type of communicating. Some type I don't understand. It's... different. Not really more understandable. But a bit easier. Easier to tell what each thing is. The distinction between each gesture is clearer than the distinction between the noises people make at me. So… it’s easier. Easier to tell when people are trying to communicate with me, too. They point more often.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>There seem to be certain... symbols people make with their body that are attached to meaning. The man has me sit down after everyone else except for Barbara and Azrael have left, and starts to show me things.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>He acts out a scenario. He is standing in front of the woman in the front desk. He's on his phone. She says something and he turns to look around at her. The two of them begin making noises at each other. Communicating.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>He then turns to me. His audience. He sticks out the index finger on his right hand, holds it up at chin height, and makes a forward circle motion with it in front of his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I laugh at that. I hold up a hand and mimic the motion a mouth opening and closing makes with it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Blah blah blah</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That’s what he’s saying, right? That’s how people act.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man nods at me.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Next, he starts the scenario the same way. He's in front of the woman at the desk. On his phone. She says something. He doesn't turn around and look at her. She says something again, louder. He still ignores her. Only when the woman at the desk walks up to him and taps his shoulder does he set his phone down and look at her. He smiles at her and they start talking with their hands.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Mouth speak versus hand speak? Is he trying to illustrate the difference?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>After this, he turns and faces me again. He taps his index finger to his ear, then drags it down to his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>But... I  don't see what ears had to do with this. I repeat the motion back at him, but confused. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The man makes his mouth speak motion again and starts talking. Blah blah blah. Then he makes his hand speak motion. He moves his mouth, but no noise comes out. He taps his ear.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I… I don’t get it. But I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to find out what he's telling me.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>He walks up to me and plays a video on his phone. A sports video. People yelling and talking in the stands, athletes competing under a net.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Then he taps a button on the video. Suddenly the sound turns off. He looks up at me and makes the motion again. The motion for... hand speak?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Or no sound?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Or both?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I think I understand. But I don't know how to tell him that. So I just nod. The motion I’ve come to associate with </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  
  <span>The man repeats the same exercise for various symbols. I can </span>
  <em>
    <span>memorize </span>
  </em>
  <span>them all, but am unsure I attached the right meaning to each one. But it's </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Barbara, me, and Azrael all walk to a cafe afterwards. Barbara starts looking at the symbols on the board above the server. Scanning. I don't do that. Those symbols are meaningless for me. So I just go straight up and look at the food on display.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Muffins. I like muffins. I press my face up against the glass, looking for the right one.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>There. Double chocolate chip. I tap Barbara's shoulder and point at it. Barbara will order it for me.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>It’s possible to get my own food, obviously. I’ve done it before. But Barbara does it for me when we’re out together. Barbara has the money. Not that anyone's explained money to me, but I’ve watched them. I’ve seen people always giving something whenever they want food at one of these places.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The thing they give is always coins, green paper bills, or a rectangular piece of plastic. At least it was. Before collapse. Before the quake. Then, during the quake, when I was trapped on the island, the giving got a lot more chaotic. People took it more often. They didn't exchange paper bills or coins or pieces of plastic. They exchanged items with each other, if they bothered to exchange non-violently. But now, normalcy has re-established itself and paper and plastic are the most valuable things again. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span> Barbara, Azrael, and me sit at a round table outside. A light breeze cuts through the air, blowing my hair around. I shut my eyes and enjoy the sensation.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Barbara has a warm cup of tea she's seeping a bag in, and Azrael has a small ceramic cup filled with strong smelling coffee and a rounded piece of bread he's breaking bits off of and shoving in his mouth. After getting a little food, he turns to me. His eyebrows are furrowed, he's focusing. He points at me. Then at my muffin. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Does </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>want </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>muffin? He got his own food! But still… I guess I can share.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> I break off the smallest piece possible and offer it to him, but he holds a hand out and shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Well what did he want?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>He turns to Barbara quickly. “ˈbɑrbərə, ɪz ðɪs it?” he asks. During the 'ðɪs' sound, he taps his mouth with his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Barbara smiles. “aɪ doʊnt noʊ. haʊ wʊd aɪ?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Azrael shrugs and turns back to me. He points at my muffin, then at me, then rubs his stomach and smiles and furrows his brow again in an interrogation.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>He... Something.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Doesn't want the muffin.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Is the muffin yummy?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Food that makes you smile. Or something that goes in your stomach and makes you smile...</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I nod slowly. “Yes,” I say. Or, I suppose, </span>
  <em>
    <span>he's </span>
  </em>
  <span>trying not to do any of the regular talking to me, so there’s no reason for me to do it either. I just nod my head.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>It goes on like that. It's... nice. Barbara and Azrael try to speak less. They aren't communicating the way I do, but they're </span>
  <em>
    <span>trying</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  I didn't know – I didn't know there was anyone who would not just keep talking to me when I clearly couldn't get it all, but also try to find a different way that I might understand </span>
  <em>
    <span>better</span>
  </em>
  <span>. No one's done it before. No one after I left him, at least.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>It's a surprise, but not an unwelcome one. And I can't help but feel a tear spring to the corner of my eye –</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>And Barbara and Azrael stop eating and look at me.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I want to hide. I -- I don’t let anyone see that. I start to cover my face but -- </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>But I’m not crying because I’m sad. Just because... I don't know how to explain. Even to myself.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Barbara reaches out and touches my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. And I re-grab her hand and squeeze it back and –</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Azrael puts an arm around my shoulders and rubs the top of my head.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I can't remember the last time I had this. Any of this. People wanting to communicate with me in a way that's closer to my way. People holding me. I –</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I rub at my face. I know the other people outside are looking at us, a little confused, but I don't care. I don't care because I have </span>
  <em>
    <span>friends</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Friends for the first time in my life. And that's all that really matters.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I mostly wrote this because I always figured that ASL would be a logical first language for Cass. It seems like it'd be easier for her to process than English. </p><p>Any of the words that characters speak that are not ones Cassandra recognizes are in IPA (international phonetic alphabet) because I wanted to convey the sounds without it being immediately comprehensible to a native English speaker (since Cassandra can't comprehend it, and she's our POV character). Technically this fic is a bit differently written than my usual ones because it's first person (because Cass at this point mentally refers to herself as "she" in third person limited, so if it was third person, it'd be confusing) and normally my fic uses the words a character would use to speak, but Cassandra doesn't speak at this point.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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